Confrontation
by leavinghope
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes' exile is cut short by the apparent return of Jim Moriarty, John Watson decides it is time to confront Mycroft Holmes about his role in their lives over the past year.


"I believe it would be in England's best interest if Sherlock were to remain in Baker Street for the time being." Mycroft Holmes paced his office while talking on his phone.

"Yes, Lady Smallwood." He nodded, although nobody could see. "Thank you for your understanding."

Mycroft placed his phone in his pocket and braced himself against his desk. With hands on the gleaming mahogany surface and head bowed, he could not remember the last time he had slept.

"That was going to be a terminal mission, wasn't it?"

Mycroft turned from his desk to look at John Watson, who had managed to quietly enter his office. _Well_, Mycroft thought, _I either have to fire this security team or hope that John left them alive. _

Mycroft gestured for John to sit down while taking his own chair. "Did Sherlock tell you that?"

"No."

Mycroft noted John was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, when his parting from his best friend had been curtailed by the return of an enemy. _Clever Mary figured it out and told John to shake his trust in Sherlock._

"My brother did not want to hurt you with that knowledge. He tries so hard to protect you."

John took a deep breath, obviously deciding which line of questioning to pursue. Mycroft admired John's control, stretched so thin after the events of the past several months.

"How could you send your own brother to his death?"

Now it was Mycroft's turn to decide. _Should I tell him about Sherrinford? I doubt Sherlock has._ Looking at the tense man seated across from him. _No_.

As he toyed with the arm of his chair, Mycroft asked, "Do you think it would be kinder to leave him to a life in prison?"

"At least he'd be alive."

"Oh, and what then? You'd visit him once every few months to tell him all about your domestic bliss with… what are we calling her now?"

John bristled. "How about my wife?"

"You know your marriage is not legal. You cannot pledge sacred bonds of fidelity with a false identity."

"She is my wife in all the ways that matter."

Mycroft smiled his most insincere of smiles. "Of course, she is. Charming personality. Normal friends. Mundane hobbies. Cozy flat. Well-timed pregnancy. It's very convenient you met her at your surgery."

"I do not appreciate your insinuations. You have no idea the kind of woman Mary is."

"I know exactly what sort of woman she is… the type who will allow the parents of the man she killed serve her tea in their home on Christmas."

"Mary didn't…"

"Sherlock flatlined, John. He flatlined on that table. One of the surgery team had called the time. She killed Sherlock. Do not sit here and defend her to me!"

Mycroft Holmes seldom lost his temper. His role in the world required a logical approach to any situation set before him. But he would never forget the way his chest clenched when he received the phone call telling him his little brother had died in the operating room. As he fought to get his own anger under control, Mycroft almost pitied John, for he understood the devastation so clearly written on the doctor's face.

In a softer tone, Mycroft said, "Sherlock's love for you equates to his forgiveness for her. The only reason I've allowed her to live is he requested I do so."

"He never told me he'd…"

"It was a kill shot, John."

Hunched over in his chair, John stared at his hands where they clenched his knees. "He said it was surgery. He said her decision saved him."

"You saved him. You stabilized him until the ambulance arrived. It was always you, John."

Mycroft paused. He cared enough about John to be honest with him.

"I and the British Government will do nothing to harm Mary or the child that she is carrying. However, Mary has made enemies, and she chose to wed a public figure. Wedding photos have appeared on the blog and in the media, and she did not alter her appearance nearly enough. They will be coming for her, John." Mycroft leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "And when that day comes, I will not help her. The British Government will not help her. She could be sitting in the middle of Buckingham Palace, and I would not lift a finger, nor will anyone else. Do you understand?"

"Yes," John whispered.

"If you attempt to engage my brother to assist her, I will kill you myself. Do you understand?"

John nodded.

A long silence persisted between the two men until John said, "He encouraged me to forgive her. He said she saved him. Why would he lie about this?"

"Surely you understand Sherlock will say anything, do anything, if he thinks it will keep you safe and happy."

"I don't deserve that from him."

"No, you do not."

Mycroft watched as John allowed defensive anger to flow through him. He had been waiting for this aspect of John's temperament to flare.

"Too bad all of your intelligence couldn't warn me about Mary from the beginning."

"I always knew who she was… is." Mycroft smirked, finally glad to have a chance to get the truth out.

Stunned, John blurted, "What?"

"Sherlock had asked me to keep an eye on you. When he left London, he could not protect you anymore. He was worried that Moriarty's network would still be after you, rightfully so as it turns out. Of course, I researched any new acquaintances of yours."

"Why didn't you say anything to me?"

"I figured she was safer for you than the alcohol."

John flinched and closed his eyes. Mycroft wondered if John had thought nobody noticed the amount of alcohol he used as a coping mechanism during the first year after Sherlock's fall. The days never leaving the flat, the nights never leaving the pub.

"But you still did nothing to warn me."

"I called my brother back to London when you purchased a ring." At John's look of disbelief, Mycroft scoffed. "Do you really think I needed him to investigate a terrorist threat? I have whole departments devoted to that task."

Bristling with frustration, John hissed, "If you knew what she was, why didn't you tell me before I married her?"

"I must admit that I overestimated you, John. I thought you would leave her when my brother returned."

John slumped in his chair, his regrets echoed in his posture. He looked Mycroft directly in the eyes, and in a broken whisper, John asked, "Did Sherlock know?"

Mycroft contemplated his next move while staring at the distraught man seated in his office. Its ostentation was meant to impress, to intimidate, but John Watson never seemed to care. He walked into this office like he had every right to be there and had shown his lack of intimidation ever since the first night Mycroft had approached him in an abandoned warehouse. Yet now every ounce of confidence was drained from John not by threats or violence, but by the loss of trust in the few closest to him. Sometimes Mycroft almost understood his brother's love for John. Both so broken, but their jagged edges merged into a smooth whole.

_The right word here could save Sherlock's life, the one he is so willing to throw away for this man. One word, and I could keep them apart forever._

"No."

John heard the truth in the word. He sighed in relief.

And Mycroft heard the truth in his word and thought to himself,_ Sentiment will be the downfall of us all._


End file.
